


Truthful Imagination

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: AU, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. In which Thomas is rich, Jimmy is hot, and they're in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truthful Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Downton Abbey kinkmeme prompt: "Thomas and Jimmy are boyfriends in modern day London, very much out and very much happy. Jimmy is an actor, and right now he is in a play called Downton Abbey, where he plays a scheming footman. And Thomas thinks Jimmy in footman uniform is the hottest thing. One day, Jimmy takes the uniform home. So... modern day of period drama with period drama role playing."
> 
> There was supposed to be more sex and less plot, but it kind of got away from me!

_Acting is behaving truthfully under imaginary circumstances._  
~ Sanford Meisner 

Twice a year, Thomas Barrow took out every bit of silverware he owned and polished it to within an inch of its life. 

He couldn't explain why, beyond that he loved the way it shone in the track lighting above the dining room table. Jimmy thought he was insane. “No one our age even owns silverware,” he said. “Let alone polishes it. At all. Ever.” Thomas, quietly overjoyed that he'd said “our age,” had no defense. Like so much of his life, he couldn't begin to understand it himself.

People—by which Thomas meant his employees, his acquaintances, his fans and readers of certain tabloids—thought they had him sussed, but they only saw his life from the outside. They saw the agency, ironically and memorably named “Backstabbers Anonymous,” that Thomas and his business partner Sarah O'Brien had grown from a tiny life-coaching practice into a multi-million pound, multinational self-help empire. They saw his beautiful six-year-old daughter Sybil, conceived with the help of a turkey baster and a copious amount of Internet porn, co-parented with Sarah and her American-born partner Cora Levinson, a family portrait for the twenty-first century. They saw his gorgeous young trophy husband, acclaimed TV and West End actor Jimmy Kent, whom Thomas had married in a lavish civil ceremony held at the Tate Modern and photographed by Hello! Magazine. But no one saw inside Thomas' life, and no one knew what he'd gone through to get where he was. 

Before Jimmy, Thomas had been rich, famous and desperately lonely. He'd had a total of two relationships in his life. Thomas' first boyfriend, Evan Crowborough, had been completely devoted to him, until Thomas' business started to take off and Evan suddenly became irrationally jealous about Thomas' attempts to improve his own life. The second boyfriend, Edward Courtenay, was a sensitive, aesthetic soul who loved Thomas to death. Thomas had loved him back, but he'd never known what was going on in Edward's head. Edward had left him, too, eventually, not for another man but for a yearlong pilgrimage to a monastery in Tibet. They'd never seen each other again. 

By the time Jimmy came along, Thomas had resigned himself to singlehood. He had Sibyl, and Sarah, and even Cora. He could have contented himself with that, probably, if Sarah hadn't met him for lunch one afternoon at the swank Patmore's on the Strand and said, “My nephew Alfred's in a new West End play.”

“Is he?” Thomas studied the menu. Patmore's specialized in “traditional English cooking,” which seemed to mean mostly meat and mash and stodgy puddings. Not Thomas' favourite cuisine, but they must have been getting something right. The place was booked up weeks in advance. 

“It's a three-hander. Two guys and a woman. Alfred was supposed to get the bigger male part, but apparently the director gave it away at the last minute. To someone called Jimmy Kent.” A dark look passed over Sarah's face. Thomas didn't envy the director, or the poor actor who'd taken “Alfred's” part. He loved Sarah like a sister, they'd worked together forever, but you couldn't have paid him enough to cross her. “Anyway, if you want to see it with us this Friday, Cora's mother's in town to watch Sibyl.” 

Thomas went. He didn't have anything better to do. The play was called, creatively, “The Triangle” and was in the West End only by the strictest of geographic standards. As they waited for the show to begin, Thomas leaned back in the creaking fold-down chair he'd been provided and wondered if any of the dozen audience members in the old church hall would notice if he fell asleep.

All thoughts of that flew out of his mind when the house lights went down, a spotlight stuttered to life, and the most captivating man Thomas had ever seen stepped out of the shadows. He was young, blond and beautiful, and, since Sarah had insisted on sitting in the front row, he was close enough that Thomas could have reached out and touched him. He didn't. Instead, he gazed upon this Adonis with rapt attention for the entire three and a half hours of the wretched play, barely registering the presence of Sarah's gangly ginger nephew or the blandly pretty female actor, Ivy something, on the stage. 

Afterward, Thomas went backstage with Sarah and Cora. There were no dressing rooms to speak of. The women went off to find Alfred and Thomas, dying for a covert cigarette, opened a door he assumed led outside. Instead, he ended up in a tiny, dim lavatory, face to face with Jimmy Kent. 

“Oh.” Jimmy looked up. He had a Smartphone in his hand, the light casting a ghostly glow into the room. “Hello. You wouldn't know anything about these things, would you?” He held up the phone. “Only I can't set the alarm for the life of me, and I was nearly late for the show.”

Thomas' throat felt dry. He swallowed, hard, and coughed. “I...I could have a look.” Jimmy passed over the phone. It was the latest Blackberry. Thomas didn't have one, but he knew enough to figure it out. As he demonstrated, Thomas leaned so close—out of necessity, of course—that he could smell make-up in Jimmy's hair and sweat on his skin. Thomas' cock stirred to life, a problem which only grew worse—or better, depending on your point of view—when Jimmy gifted him with the most angelic smile. 

“Thanks. That helps a lot.” 

“You're welcome.” Thomas reached desperately for something else to say. “I...I liked the play. You were very good.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy repeated, looking genuinely pleased. “What made you come and see it?”

Thomas' first instinct was to lie, to say that he'd seen it in Time Out or had read a good review online, but his lies always seemed to come back to bite him. He was honest instead. “My partner is Alfred's aunt. My business partner,” he added, quickly. He fancied Jimmy's smile grew a little with that clarification. 

“The play's shit,” Jimmy said, cheerfully, “but I appreciate the thought.” He held out his hand. “Could I have my phone back?”

“Of course. Here. Sorry.” Thomas felt himself blush. He hoped the lighting was too dim for it to be obvious. He passed over the phone with his left hand, and Jimmy's eyes landed on the web of scars below his third and fourth fingers. 

“What happened there? If you don't mind me asking.”

Thomas did mind, usually, but coming for Jimmy, the question was endearing. Just about anything would be. “Motorcycle accident. When I was young. They did reconstructive surgery, but this is about as good as it gets, I'm afraid.”

Jimmy took the phone, but he didn't move away. Instead, he reached out with his other hand and traced the scars so gently, Thomas' heart threatened to stop mid-beat. “You ride a motorcycle?”

“Used to,” Thomas croaked. 

“Sounds...dangerous.” Jimmy's tongue darted out and wet his bottom lip. Thomas usually had the perfect riposte, the ideal comeback for any situation, but now, his mind was blank. “Fancy a drink?” Jimmy asked. All Thomas could do was nod. 

Thomas was besotted. During the day, his every thought was consumed by Jimmy; at night, Jimmy haunted all his dreams. It wasn't just because of his looks. Jimmy was unbelievably handsome, of course, and devastatingly sexy, but there was more to him than that. He had a certain undefinable quality, an effortless, quiet kindness Thomas had never encountered before and certainly didn't possess. That intoxicated Thomas quicker and more completely than any drink.

Sarah, of course, was the first to notice. She came to the flat one morning to drop off Sybil and discuss the quarter's financial reports. Sibyl kissed him hello and settled in front of the television. She was dressed in a pair of boys' dungarees and a blue Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt, but before Thomas could broach this subject with Sarah, Sarah said, “He's too young for you, you pervert.”

“He's not a child, Sarah.”

Sarah ignored him. “Alfred tells me he's always on about you. 'Thomas is so handsome, Thomas is so butch, Thomas is a theatre fairy's wet dream.'” Thomas couldn't imagine Jimmy using those exact words. Still, verbatim or not, they made Thomas' heart soar. “Alfred says it makes him want to puke.” _Fuck Alfred_ , Thomas thought. _But not literally._ “I hope I don't have to lecture you about safety.”

“You don't. We haven't even done anything yet.” Thomas regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. “Did you email me those reports?” He went on quickly, but of course it was too much to hope that Sarah would let the comment pass. 

“What do you mean, you haven't done anything? Jimmy told Alfred you've been out three times.” 

“We have.” Each date had been better than the one before, and each had ended with them making out like teenagers in the back of a Branson Brothers hire car, or on Thomas' sofa, or against a lamppost outside Jimmy's flat. But whenever Thomas let his hands wander lower, Jimmy drew away and said, “I can't, Thomas. Not yet,” with such an expression of regret on his face that Thomas couldn't write him off as a cocktease. 

Sarah looked at Thomas for a long moment. “Hm,” she finally said, managing to cram a world of scorn into that simple syllable. “Maybe he's straight.” 

If he was, he did a good job of hiding it. Sometimes, Jimmy called and texted Thomas dozens of times a day, sharing little jokes and talking about auditions or fellow actors or funny or irritating or depressing or amazing things that had happened to him. At other times, Jimmy went days without calling at all, and the only reply to Thomas' entreaties was a terse text: “Sorry, busy right now.” 

One night, when Sibyl was with her mothers and Thomas had downed more than a couple of whiskey and sodas, he pulled on his coat and left his flat. It was too late for the Tube, but he could have called Branson Brothers, or even hailed a taxi. Instead, he walked the entire three miles to Jimmy's flat, trudging through the pre-dawn darkness until he was standing outside the subdivided Victorian townhouse.

Jimmy lived on the ground floor, to the right of the front door. His window was dark. Thomas knew he should go home; instead, he took out his phone. 

He expected Jimmy's voicemail to pick up. It didn't. Instead, the light flicked on in Jimmy's flat. “Hello?” Jimmy's voice was groggy, coloured by sleep. Thomas knew he should hang up, but he couldn't make himself do it.

“Do you love me, Jimmy?” The words echoed in Thomas' head. It took a moment for him to realize he'd said them himself. “Even a bit?” 

Jimmy sighed. Thomas watched as he came to the window, deliciously disheveled in a wrinkled T-shirt and boxer shorts. He waved Thomas over. 

By the time he crossed the road, Jimmy was waiting in the doorway. Thomas couldn't interpret Jimmy's expression, but it looked to be somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “Have you been drinking?” 

“Yes.” Pointless to deny it. “A lot.” 

Jimmy shook his head, but it was tempered with a smile, one of those big grins that lit up his face and sent Thomas' stomach to his knees. He held up his arms and Thomas went into them, resting his head on Jimmy's shoulder. “I've been hurt before,” Jimmy murmured, his lips against Thomas' ear. 

“I would never hurt you, Jimmy.” Tears pricked at his eyes. The very idea of it was repulsive. He would do anything for Jimmy. He would walk three miles through London in the middle of the night, he would worship at Jimmy's feet, he would move Heaven and Earth for Jimmy, but he would never, ever hurt him. 

Jimmy pulled him into the flat and closed the door behind them.

The following days and weeks and months were bliss. Sibyl loved Jimmy, Cora loved him, even Sarah cracked a smile or two when Jimmy told stories about the antics of his former amateur travelling troupe, Lady Anstruther's Players. Jimmy landed a small but recurring role on the Rosamund Painswick sitcom “The Jazz Age for Beginners,” and the Asian office of Backstabbers Anonymous got permission to expand into the monolithic market of China. Life was perfect. The only shadow, if one could call it that, was the sense Thomas sometimes got that he loved Jimmy more intensely and more devotedly than Jimmy loved him, but that wasn't a problem, as such. The intensity of his love and devotion was so strong, it even frightened Thomas sometimes. No one as sweet and uncomplicated as Jimmy could match it. Or so Thomas thought.

One Valentine's Day, nearly two years after they first met, Jimmy insisted on taking him to Patmore's for dinner. He insisted in dressing up, as well, which meant Thomas spent the meal staring at the truly breathtaking sight of Jimmy in a suit and wondering how quickly he could possibly get it off him. Jimmy seemed to be thinking the same thing; he was fidgety throughout the meal, dropping his cutlery and dipping his sleeve in the gravy.

They'd just finished the main course when a young woman in a chef's toque came to the table, carrying a pudding on a silver tray. She put down the pudding and cast an appraising glance over Thomas. Before Thomas could comment, she said, “Well done, Jimmy,” and disappeared, giggling.

“Her name's Daisy,” Jimmy explained. “We worked together when I was a waiter.” 

“I see.” Thomas looked at the pudding. It was plum duff. Thomas hadn't seen one in years. As he mentally calculated how many hours he'd need to spend in the gym to make up for eating it, Jimmy dropped another spoon.

“Oops.” He got up to retrieve it. Thomas took a bite of the plum duff, which was as dense and delicious as expected. Jimmy cleared his throat, and Thomas glanced over to see him on one knee. 

“Jimmy?” Confusion and worry attacked Thomas in equal measures. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Jimmy frowned. “Shit, I had a whole speech and everything.” Thomas let his fork fall to his plate, an uneaten morsel of plum duff still speared on the tines. “It doesn't matter. Here.” Jimmy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced a small, velvet box. Thomas' heart hammered like it was attempting to break free. He could feel the eyes of the other diners on him, but he ignored every one of them. As if in a dream, he opened the box and found a plain gold ring. “Marry me? Please?” Jimmy asked. Thomas stared at him. Jimmy shifted on the carpet, his tongue licking his lips in a gesture Thomas knew belied nervousness. It went straight to his heart.

“Of course,” Thomas replied. "Yes. Absolutely." He wasn't crazy, and there was no other sane reply to that question. 

He meant for Sarah to be the first to know, but he didn't get chance to tell her. It wasn't the sort of announcement you made via text, and the next time Thomas saw her, she took one look at the ring on his left hand and said, “What makes you think he doesn't just want your money?”

“I could say the same of Cora,” Thomas snapped. 

Sarah scoffed. “Please. I've known her longer than I've known you. You and Jimmy have been together what, ten minutes?”

“Two years,” Thomas replied. “And we're getting Anna Smith to write something up before the wedding. It was Jimmy's idea.” Smith was the junior partner at Bates and Smith, the firm of solicitors he and Sarah had been using for years. Thomas preferred her over her partner. He always got the impression Bates harboured some vague, undefined dislike for him. The feeling was mutual.

Sarah looked at him, cool and appraising. “You'll have to have a big wedding,” she determined. “Lots of media. You're both good-looking, and he's on the telly. It'll be a goldmine of publicity for us.” 

“I'll have to speak to Jimmy about it. Not everyone's as mercenary as you.”

Sarah smiled, as if he'd just paid her a compliment. “Little Jimmy's an actor, not a saint. Of course he'll want his face anywhere he can get it. It's not like he's got the talent to make it on his own.”

Thomas reached out and caught Sarah's wrist. The touch wasn't hard, but she looked up in surprise. “I love him,” Thomas said. He told Jimmy so all the time, in little notes and text messages and whispers in the dark as they lay in bed, but he'd never said it aloud to someone else before. “If you can't respect that, then maybe you and I should stop seeing so much of each other.”

Sarah pulled her arm away, scowling. She stuck to business for the rest of her visit, though. When Thomas saw her out, she put on her Prada raincoat and pulled her hair out of her collar. “I suppose if you think you're happy, then I can be happy for you.” She put her handbag over her shoulder. Thomas smiled. It was as close to enthusiastic congratulations as he was going to get. 

“Thanks,” he said, and held open the door. 

Thomas was happy. So happy that sometimes, he wondered what he'd done to deserve it, and what he should keep doing to make sure karma stayed on his side. The wedding was great, the honeymoon even better. He and Jimmy spent two weeks in the Maldives, alternating between sex and sunbathing and sometimes combining the two. The night before they came home, Jimmy had a text from his agent saying he'd been offered the role of scheming footman Teddy Durham, third male lead in the new West End show “Downton Abbey.”

“It was a big hit on Broadway,” Jimmy explained, when Thomas released him from a bone-crushing hug long enough to draw breath. He sat on the edge of the hotel bed, a king-sized monstrosity surrounded by gauzy curtains. “Sort of a Noel Coward-type musical farce. It's supposed to be amazing.”

“Of course it will be, if you're in it.” Thomas dropped onto the mattress beside him. After two weeks in the sun, he was somehow still pale, although Jimmy had tanned beautifully, a bronze god in a damp red bathing suit. Jimmy laughed, a carefree, abandoned sound that Thomas immediately wanted to keep hearing for the rest of his life, and pulled Thomas on top of him. 

Now, Jimmy was into his final week of rehearsals. The long days and high levels of stress were taking their toll on Jimmy and, as Thomas put away the last of the silver polish, he thought about how relieved they would both be when the show finally opened. 

He returned the spoons to their velvet-lined box and heard the front door open. Jimmy sighed heavily and came into the dining room, a black garment bag slung over one shoulder. He glanced at the silverware case, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he kissed Thomas on the mouth, quickly and almost chastely, then stepped away. “Is Sibyl home?”

“Not until tomorrow.” Sarah and Cora had taken her to Disneyland Paris for her last week of school holidays. “We'd invite you and Jimmy along,” Sarah had said, “but you're still newlyweds, and I doubt Mickey Mouse wants to see you with your tongues down one another's throats. Neither do I, frankly.” 

Jimmy dropped the garment bag in a heap at the end of the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Automatically, Thomas picked up the bag, hanging it on the back of a chair and straightening the creases. “How was your day?” He asked, when Jimmy returned, two beers in hand. Jimmy gave one to Thomas and collapsed into a chair. 

“Hellish. Edith Crawley showed up.”

“The playwright?”

Jimmy nodded. “She brought her family with her. Father, sister, brother-in-law, grandmother.” Thomas winced in sympathy. “So Charles made us do a full run-through for them, which of course pissed off Elsie because only half the lights are in place.” Thomas recognized these names. Charles Carson, the director, and Elsie Hughes, the stage manager. Jimmy couldn't decide whether they were having it off, wanted to be, or had been in the past. “We only made it to the intermission, anyway, and Edith burst into tears and ran off.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, they didn't like it. Although her brother-in-law kept yelling, 'I thought it was good!'” 

Thomas thought. “You said it's been on Broadway for years. Hadn't they seen it before?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Don't ask me, darling.” It was a rare endearment, although becoming more frequent since the wedding, and as soon as it passed Jimmy's lips, Thomas found he couldn't care less about Edith Crawley or any member of her family. 

Later, after supper, Thomas and Jimmy lay on the sofa, Jimmy's head on Thomas' lap and Thomas' hand in his hair, watching terrible reality television. Thomas was completely content until he suddenly wasn't, and a familiar, undeniable craving began to gnaw at his mind. He tried to push it away, stroking Jimmy's hair instead, but it was no use, and by the time the “Celebrity Big Brother” housemates were getting into their fourth brawl of the episode, he stood up. “I'm going out for a breath of fresh air. Won't be a minute.” 

Jimmy rolled his eyes and sat up. “Just one 'breath', all right? I thought you were quitting.”

“I am.” He was doing it slowly, that was all. Making sure he avoided the health risks associated with going cold turkey. It was very responsible of him, really.

The balcony ran the length of the upper floor, providing a stunning view of the Thames to Tower Bridge. Thomas leaned on the railing and smoked, watching the lights of the boats twinkling on the river. When he was done, he stubbed out the cigarette end in the ashtray on the table and went back into the flat. 

The television was still on, blaring inanities, but Jimmy was gone. Thomas slid the glass door shut, and when he turned around again, a voice said, “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Barrow.”

Jimmy had changed. When Thomas went outside, he'd been wearing tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, like Thomas himself. Now, he was dressed like the prince out of a fairy tale, all white bow-tie and starched collar and knife-edged black trousers. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated, blinking big eyes in Thomas' direction. Thomas opened his mouth, then realized he had no idea what he was going to say. “I know I was meant to help you with the silverware this afternoon, but it slipped my mind.” Jimmy lowered his eyes demurely, almost coquettishly. “However can I make it up to you?”

“I'm...” Thomas coughed. “I'm sure we can think of something.” 

They didn't do this. They didn't play these sorts of games. Thomas had done it before, with Evan Crowborough. They'd had toys and costumes and elaborate role-playing scenarios that usually ended with Thomas on his knees, his hands tied behind his back with a necktie. That stuff wasn't necessary with Jimmy. Thomas loved him so much, he couldn't imagine ever getting bored enough to resort to those types of fantasies. That was what they'd been: fantasies enacted so both Thomas and Evan could pretend they weren't totally sick of one another. Thomas would never be sick of Jimmy.

But maybe it wasn't just about that. Maybe, a tiny voice whispered, at the back of Thomas' mind, you've overlooked potential here. 

“That's not all,” Jimmy went on, so much guilt in his eyes that Thomas had to remind himself they were only playing. “I'm afraid I've done a terrible job of...” A brief hesitation. “Hoovering the billiards room?” He didn't sound entirely convinced. Improvisation had never been Jimmy's strong suit. It wasn't Thomas', either, but the sight of Jimmy in a footman's uniform was suddenly proving very inspirational indeed. 

“Is that so?” Thomas tried to remember “Gosford Park” and “Upstairs, Downstairs” and every Charles Dickens book he'd ever been forced to read at school. “Well, then, perhaps I'll need to teach you to take more care in your duties.” 

Jimmy swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Thomas took a step forward, and Jimmy stepped back, doing a very credible impression of anxiety. His tongue even came out to wet his lips. “If you think it's necessary. Sir.” 

Thomas was desperate to touch him, but he didn't want this to be over that quickly. Instead, he walked around behind Jimmy, standing with his chest so close to Jimmy's back, he could feel Jimmy's body head radiating through the costume. Thomas blocked out the huge television, and the leather sofa, and the pile of Blackberries, iPads and other electronic ephemera on the coffee table. He took himself back to another age, a time when someone like Jimmy really might have been a footman in an aristocrat's house and someone like Thomas would probably have had no luck at all. 

“Oh, I think it's necessary, Mr. Kent.”

“Jimmy,” Jimmy corrected him. Thomas refrained from rolling his eyes. Jimmy wasn't a method actor, exactly, but he took all his roles seriously. 

“Jimmy.” Thomas raised a hand and placed it on Jimmy's shoulder. He was rewarded by a shiver down Jimmy's spine which, if it was manufactured, was only further proof of Jimmy's prodigious acting skill. Thomas slid his other hand around and rested it on Jimmy's chest, the buttons of the costume rubbing against Thomas' wedding ring. He slid the hand downward, slowly and carefully, until he skimmed over Jimmy's belt to his crotch. The twitching interest he found there was definitely the real thing. 

Jimmy sucked in a breath as Thomas stroked him through the fabric. “Perhaps I shouldn't say this, sir...” Jimmy trailed off. Thomas bent his head to run his lips around the outside of Jimmy's ear. 

“Say whatever you like.” Then, worried that might not be imperious enough, Thomas added, “It's not going to help you.”

Jimmy's eyes fell closed. Thomas moved in closer, letting Jimmy feel his own burgeoning arousal. “I watch you, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy said, his voice cracking. “All the time. When you're cleaning the guns, when you're serving at dinner. Even at night, sometimes. I sneak into your bedroom and watch you sleeping. I know it's terrible of me, but I can't help myself. You're captivating.” 

“That's quite a confession.” 

“Every word is true.” Jimmy turned. His eyes were wide, and a thin film of sweat had appeared on his forehead. He placed his hands on Thomas' chest and looked up at him. “Please don't report me to his Lordship.” Thomas shook his head. His cock was growing more impatient, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up this scenario. He put his arms around Jimmy and pulled him close, trapping Jimmy's hands between them. He dug his fingers into the fabric of the costume and sealed their mouths together, his tongue winding around Jimmy's until Jimmy pulled away and gasped, “And please don't damage my uniform. It'll come out of my wages.” 

Thomas looked down at the complicated series of buttons and clasps and what he couldn't help but feel were slightly anachronistic strips of Velcro on Jimmy's jacket. “Maybe you'd better see to yourself. Come and find me when you're ready for your lesson.” Thomas turned. It took all of his self-control not to peek over his shoulder as he headed for the bedroom. 

As soon as he was there, he pulled the curtains shut on the inky black sky over London and tore off his T-shirt. The tracksuit bottoms were a bit more challenging. He worked them over his slavering, excited cock and kicked them in the vague direction of the clothes basket. He lay on the bed just as Jimmy appeared in the doorway.

He'd taken off the costume but kept the big eyes and the deferential smile. Jimmy's cock bobbed eagerly between his legs as he made his way over to the bed, climbing up beside Thomas. “Oh, Mr. Barrow,” he breathed, planting his arms on either side of Thomas' body and leaning in close enough to kiss, his lips a breath away from Thomas'. “Be gentle with me. It's my first time.” 

It was, in a word, incredible. When it was over, Thomas was sure he'd never come so hard in his life . He knew he'd hit the headboard, the wall and possibly the ceiling, although he couldn't be bothered to get up and look. Instead, he rolled over, resting his head on Jimmy's sweat-slicked chest. Jimmy's arms came around him, and he planted a kiss in Thomas' hair. “Hmm.” Jimmy sighed. “That was fun.”

“Fun” was an understatement. “Fun” was a nice meal at Patmore's and a blowjob on the sofa. This was so far beyond fun, Thomas couldn't begin to think of an appropriate word for it, although he was more than willing to put in some more practice while he came up with one. “Are there any other costumes you could bring home?”

Jimmy laughed. “The theatre's got a faun outfit from when they did a production of 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe'. And a lion, for that matter.”

Thomas pretended to consider it. “Can't say I fancy fucking Aslan, really. Or Mr. Tumnus.” 

“What about a duke? Ever fancied fucking an aristocrat?” Thomas couldn't say he'd ever thought about it, but if Jimmy was playing the part, he was sure he could rise to the occasion. 

Jimmy switched off the beside lamp and snuggled in beside Thomas. Thomas kissed him again and closed his eyes. He didn't know how long this streak of good luck would last, but for once, he didn't worry about it. Instead, he fell into a deep, restful sleep and dreamed he and Jimmy were this happy forever.


End file.
